


Five men who failed Cersei Lannister – and one who didn't.

by cortchuzska



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:30:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortchuzska/pseuds/cortchuzska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Why could not women do anything by themselves, why were not allowed to be anything in their own right?</em><br/>A snake, a stag, a cub, a dragon, a lion, and a dog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oberyn Nymeros Martell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Has she seduced you yet? " Tyrion asked, unsurprised.  
>  Oberyn laughed aloud. "No, but she will if I meet her price. The queen has even hinted at marriage. All your sister requires from me is one head, somewhat overlarge and missing a nose. "_

He had been hardly the first man to fail her, and scarcely the last one to let her down, despite how little she had demanded, despite how little she expected of him, despite how much she had offered him – everything she could. _Only a word: guilty._ Cersei Lannister did not delusion herself about men any longer, but a woman could not do a thing by herself, be she the queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and she needed his help, to make sure Tyrion would not escape his fate.

Cersei wondered why, all of a sudden, her father had fallen for the Viper and had grown so fond of snakes as to award him a seat at the small council, offer him a marriage with his own daughter, who chanced to be Queen Regent, and now honour him with a judge's authority. Though there was scarce love between the Martells and the Lannisters, a man in Tywin Lannister's office – a man willing to keep it for long - had poor use for petty grudges; but there was more to it, she feared.

To show his impartiality, her lord father had seen fit to sit in judgement with the Lord of Highgarden and Prince Oberyn. Mace Tyrell, whose unscathed daughter had been so inconveniently bereft of another king and another husband, was quite vocal about having the Imp's head on a pike, and was eager for it almost as she was, but Oberyn Martell cared for his whims only: for a pique or out of spite, he could acquit her brother only to provoke the Tyrells or to vex Lord Tywin, and she would not suffer it.

Everyone knew of the everlasting feud and ongoing enmity between Highgarden and Sunspear: it was in Tywin Lannister to craftly turn to his own advantage their all too foreseeable disagreement, and have his own way with no fuss behind everyone else's back. Maybe, he would even spare Tyrion the sword, for Casterly Rock honour ought to shine unsullied as its gold, and a publicly severed ugly head could tarnish it; the Imp was anyway his son, and her father had always been partial to her brothers over her.

The Prince was the third judge; and his word could be pivotal.

_I learnt how this game is played at your knee, father, and I'm far better at it than your sons; I'm no less good than you, my lord Hand, and a woman has her own weapons. To be sure, Oberyn Martell looks just the rare breed of snake who can be swayed by a mother's tears._

Since her father had decided she should remarry – and marry _him_ , of all men, she would make the most of it; even if she had no wish for another marriage, and less for a husband who could be easily foretold as a worse copy of her previous one.

Oberyn Nymeros Martell had begotten no less by-blows than late and unlamented King Robert, and was even more flagrant. Myrcella had asked him to bring her mother some presents from Sunspear: a few small jars of jasmine and orange flower balm, two tacky snake-shaped bracelet, and a long sandsilk veil. Accompanying greetings were followed by instructions on how to fashion scarves according to latest Dornish styles, written in a hand different from her daughter's and Arianne Martell's. In all likeliness, from the quill of any of the Prince's girls, none of them born the right side of the blanket: the letter was signed by both the Princesses, and then by eight Sands. _Do they think they are on a par with princesses and queens?_ Some of them had not even bothered with their full name, and flourished instead a snakelike shape.

_Ser Arys wrote the Queen would be pleased Myrcella had grown so close to the Martells, Princess Arianne and Prince Trystane. He did not mention any Sand. Did he forget, or did he know his Queen would not be pleased at all? Was he hiding her anything else? She would soon remind him of where his loyalties were supposed to lay._

Not only he had acknowledged the whole lot of his misbegotten daughters, even the most baseborn of them: Varys had reported his eldest was born in no less than Oldtown dockside, a district that vied for unsavoury notoriety with the Flea Bottom, and could boast an even longer tradition – _how sad Robert never visited Dorne, and you never came to King's Landing during his reign; you would have made fast friend_ \- but they lived with him, at Sunspear court, something not even Robert had dared, and only a fine specimen such as the late Lord Eddard could do: the Starks were savages wont to call honour their lack of manners and common sense.

Neither was he shy about his steady attendance to brothels.

Uncle Kevan, after his first small council meeting, asked him the customary pleasantry “How do you like it in King's Landing, my lord?”

“The city is duller than I remembered, mostly dingy houses, rubble heaps and ashes. Forgive me,” his excuse sounded more of an accusation “I should not be so unfavourably stricken, but I did never see King's Landing sacked; I surmise its sight was even grislier. I regret Lord Baelish is no longer here; his establishments are among the few attractions still worth visiting, and his guidance would be welcome. I have been away for too long and I loathe to admit I am no longer well acquainted with the joys of the capital pillow play as I once was.” Oberyn Martell replied casually, while staring at an impassive Lord Tywin, whose well known strictness on the matter was second only to Stannis Baratheon's one; and put an end to Kevan's efforts at softening him and broaching more pressing and sorer matters involving the Prince and the Lannisters.

He had even a mistress; and bastard at that. _Sunspear court is so sandy man might ask if there is any sand left in Dorne deserts._ Cersei wondered if a living Ellaria would be such a redoubtable rival as a dead Lyanna.

At the King's marriage feast, Oberyn and his paramour sat at the Queen's table, and they spent most time giggling and whispering to each other, gloriously unaware of everyone else, flushed with excitement as they were twenty-five years younger and the incoming bedding was their own, occasionally humming the songs they liked best.

The Prince went as far as to improvise a variation on the Tyroshi singer's theme, tracing the fingering with a nimble hand, and lightly tapping out time upon the table with the other. Long-fingered harpist's hands, like Rhaegar's elegant ones, she couldn't help noticing; but Oberyn's voice though agreeably deep was nowhere as rich nor as easy. From their eyes wicked glint and from Ellaria's louder chuckles, a notably bawdier rendition of the original song. _Let's hope no one else understands High Valyrian._ The Queen stared at them, setting on her face her father's stony and stern mask.

“In my opionion the Tyroshi - what's his name, Ellaria?” The Prince returned with a carefree tilt to his paramour. “Collio Quaynis, you're right. He was the best one, but nothing could compare to Rhaegar Targaryen.” He took her hand and kissed gallantly her knuckles, while casting an impudent look about. “A pity so few of you can still remember him.”

Cersei could remember him very well, and felt suddenly old.

Ellaria rested her head against the prince's shoulder, and looked up half-lidded at him. His hard mouth curled up into a smile, and his leering gaze plunged in her cleavage.

_If you enjoy wedding feasts so much, you should better resolve to get hitched, and save the show for your bedding. Did the two of you never find the time, in the last fifteen years? Or were the Martells waiting for a better match? A dreary misfortune your apartments are in the Red Keep farthest area: I'd wager you will not make it even to Maegor's portcullis, before getting laid. Would you rather help yourself the bridal chamber, as Robert did at his brother's marriage?_

Worse than Robert, he was no King, no Lord, nothing at all. He could offer no more than his House name, a name he had gone out of his way to besmirch with scandals he sported as they were badges of honour, yet a name no one would ever suspect might be traded for Casterly Rock gold or to curry the Lannisters' favour. A name her father hoped would stifle Stannis Baratheon's black lies.

Since Tyrion was to be judged guilty, attainted as a traitor, and hopefully executed, Cersei now considered herself the heiress to Casterly Rock by rights, while Prince Oberyn was but a naught, and had no feasible reason to deny her, nor would he, for all his arrogant pride, begrudge her authority as Lady of the Rock, while her father acted as King's Hand. The one good thing about Dornishmen was they wouldn't balk at a woman being in charge.

_If he has a seat at the council, I could even stay in the capital. A taste of jealousy will do Jaime good, and bring him to his heels. By any means, he should have already dispatched Tyrion with no need for trial; our little brother has always been his pet, but Joffrey was his son!_

\--o--

“If even your youngest sibling is guilty as you say, it would be most unwise of me to associate with a family of ascertained Kingslayers.”

“Too dangerous?” She sipped a cup of Arbor gold, turning on him an alluring sidelong glance.

Oberyn took it from her hands, sniffed it, and put it down on the window ledge he was perching on.

“You could not swallow such swill, had you ever savoured Dornish sour.”

“I'm looking forward to it.” Cersei charmingly cooed. “Remember, my lord, a Lannister always pays her debts.”

He stepped forward. “I'm not my patient brother, and I would rather not wait twenty years to be paid.”

He was too close to her; closer than proper, close enough for her to feel his warm breath, close enough to see his black eyes darker with need, and glinting with urge - she full knew how to elicit desire in men. Prince Oberyn, true to type, had been an easy prey: Cersei, under his cold appraising stare, tilted up her chin to offer him a better view and peered at him in silent defiance – _does the sight please you, my lord? or are your tastes so overly demanding?_

Close enough to whisper huskily to her ear “We shall better sleep on it, Your Grace.”

Oberyn Martell plainly meant business, and was not about to content himself with just smiles, glimpses and promises; nor was she a woman to grant her favours without being sure he would comply.

“I trust you understand a mother's grief.” He doted on his eight bastard daughters, as many wouldn't upon their sole true-born son. “My bed only companion will be tears, till I'm not certain my beloved son will have justice, and King Joffrey's murderer will be sentenced as he deserves.”

When he left, from the threshold he lingered on her a longing gaze, and Cersei was confident she had won him over to her cause. Nonetheless, a doubt crept over her. _Can really a snake be trusted?_

\--o--

During the trial, his mood switched from mildly bored, to vaguely annoyed or faintly surprised, as it was a trifle of no matter, but Cersei still hoped: it was his usual haughty nonchalant manner, she kept telling to herself. When he closely questioned Shae, and made her speak of the unspeakable things that Tyrion had her do, and everyone laughed, she was even pleased with his subtle cunning. While behaving like an unbiased judge, and even with some simpathy for the accused, he gave anyone clear evidence Tyrion was a guilty brute. Prince Oberyn was her only true ally; Lord Mace was a dullard, and her father, even if he had always disliked Tyrion, just kept silent and glared. _A Lannister always pays her debts, so I'd better get used to Dornish sour. He is not Jaime, but he can't be much worse than Robert; and when it comes down to it, tying a three lovers' knot on my wedding night will not be as dull as a drunkard gloomily brooding over a lifeless corpse._ Cersei Lannister was already schooling an enticing smile on her lips.

Then he decided to champion _Tyrion_ , and forego promises, prospected marriage, and eventually his own life.

_No one has gone so far before in order to disappoint me._

Thrice cursed Elia: she had robbed her of Rhaegar, almost managed to snatch from her the just revenge on the monster who had slain her son, and denied her another husband.

It had not been the first time either a departed bitch had stripped her of what was hers.


	2. King Robert Baratheon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I do not know which of you I pity most.”_

“You have all the makings of a perfect queen.” He stated, and took his daughter's hand. “A Lannister always pays his debts, _Your Grace.”_

Cersei, basking in proud Lord Tywin's golden beam, couldn't help smiling him back.

_No need to remind me; you have been training me in the art, since I was a little girl._

Her father, even more well-groomed than usual for the day, with a curt nod ordered a page to lay on her dressing table an unassuming ebony casket, carved with coupled lion and lioness in high relief, then unfolded the Lannisters' bridal cloak and draped it on its stand, smoothing the thick cloth, where still lingered a faded memory of dusty roses.

Cersei took again stock of her cloth-of-gold wedding dress. Frothy spun gold Myrish lace flounced its train, and loose black vines rambled from the hem, parting the skirt in ample folds, snaked in closer coils at the hips and twined tightly around the amazingly thin waist. Its fitted bodice burst with pomegranates, an omen of good luck and plenty, of a prosperous marriage, blessed with many children; some fruits were demurely ajar, some gashed, some proudly displayed all of their bounty. Their seeds were wrought in rubies, and ruby chips embroidered pomegranate blossoms scattered on the skirt and on the inner lining of the floor-sweeping sleeves, deeply cut to show their wealth of cloth-of-gold overlapping layers. Ruby, gold and black; they would match her husband's house colours and hers both.

_By the end of her bedding, many a man would find himself richer; and scrabble for ruby chips, many more than at the Trident._

Her father's fingers brushed the Lannisters mantle one last time. “The same cloak your lady mother donned when we wed; the same I clasped around her shoulder.”

He left her room and let in a gaggle of giggling girls who would equally help her with brush strokes and babbles.

“Your hair outshine the sun, Your Grace.”

“King Robert is such a handsome man!”

“So broad-shouldered, so blue-eyed, so black-haired...”

“You are bound to be the envy of all the ladies, today.”

“His Majesty is the Warrior reborn, a mighty champion whose feats all sing of, the dream of every maid in the Seven Kingdom.”

_And very fond as well of making said dreams come true, oft in the form of a black-haired, blue-eyed squalling baby, if rumours are to be believed._

Yet not long before, the Seven Kingdoms maidens dreamed other dreams; but she had had enough of lays, and a marriage is not a time for dirges. She had no longer use for girlish dreams.

“It sounds like a tale: the brave knight takes over the kingdom, and claims the most beautiful maid as his queen.”

_Silly goose; as all the Seven Kingdoms didn't know he had waged war for Lyanna Stark; and Prince Rhaegar had refused Cersei, when she was free for him to have, losing everything to Lyanna who was instead meant for Robert._

Still, history is what the winners make of it, her father had taught her; and she would make sure the official account of King Robert and Queen Cersei would follow the above lines.

“The king will be dazzled.” A maid handed her a mirror. “There is no man your beauty can't win, Your Grace.” Her words rang as they were meant as a balm to soothe her misgivings.

“The winner at the Trident, a warrior-king, like the conquerors of old...”

“You are so beautiful, Your grace. Beautiful as the winner prize!”

The gabble would not stop, and was giving her a headache; maybe it was her tight headdress, or the sickening smell of roses and death of her wedding cloak. Cersei unlatched the casket; Casterly Rock glory and might gleamed against the polished dark wood in a rainbow of gems, worth a fleet built anew, or marshalling an army: the Lannisters' awe-inspiring gifts to their queen.

She was meant for a king, a conqueror, a winner; she was to be treasured as the winner's prize. That was what Cersei Lannister felt deep in her bones, and what her father had hammered in her. The only thing worth of her, the only thing worth fighting for. Robert Baratheon was no doubt a winner, and Cersei took some pride in being the winner's prize. Even her father was pleased.

_Yet in her heart of heart, she would rather have a different outcome at the Trident, and another winner._

Cersei tried on a dragon-shaped sapphire pendant; when she rested its cold metal on her neck soft skin, she gave a shudder. During Aerys's reign Tywin Lannister had been the actual ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and by rights he should have shared the Targaryens' lot; even if he was not a man to be undone, his timely retirement and brooding neutrality during the war were credited to him as a canny move to close the match with a par, and to honourably accept the new king's peace, as the Tyrells and the Martells had to do unwillingly. The Lord of the Rock, though, played only to win, he had turned the tables, and now the Lannisters enjoyed the lion's share of the winner's loot. Her breath hitched at the sudden thought King's Aerys and Elia's children had been her father's and her brother's mighty wedding gifts, so that she could marry a king.

Now Lord Tywin was no longer hand; he would retire to Casterly Rock, and it would be up to her – to her and Jaime – to play the game; now there were other battles to fight, other wars to win.

She had already had her fill of her maids trite remarks; Cersei Lannister briskly dismissed them and sent for her brother.

\--o--

“Beautiful as the winner's prize, sweet sister.” Jaime smirked and looked appreciatively at her leaning against a doorpost. “Your cloth-of-gold finery looks heavier than my armour. What does the queen command of me?”

“Just fuck me, ser.”

“Not yet a queen, and already so bossy?”

Jaime closed the door, moved a step forward, and watched her doubtfully. “Does it amount to high treason, as of yet?”

“Have you ever been wary of such charges?”

“Guilty as stated.” Jaime tilted his head, with a sly smile. “It would rather add some edge to it.”

“In a few hours it will.”

“So, I guess it's our last chance for honour.” Jaime snickered, his eyes glittered, and filled with her own image, as he closed the space between them. “Better seize it.”

He offered her his vambraces.

“Does Your Grace still remember how to unbuckle an armour?”

“Can you still undo undo my gown laces, brother?”

_They will have to fix my hair again, I guess; but I will have a proper maiden glow, and Jaime can cinch a tight waist better than any serving wench._

_\--o--_

The ceremony at Baelor's Sept passed in a golden haze, and despite her back straining at her dress weight, the corset cutting off her breath and her aching neck, Cersei kept her head proudly high and beamed out of sheer will force.

Atop Baelor's marble steps, when the crowd was cheering, it was almost a triumph; when Robert turned to her, for a moment it felt like poetic justice. Now she could prove in the King, before the whole kingdom, how wrong had been the Prince; in spurning her, in his madness for Lyanna. _Robert will soon realize he won a lioness worthier than the wolf-girl he waged this war for; blanking her memory from him was to be her victory on Rhaegar._

Robert was larger than life, and as large and as eager were his appetites for life - be it women, wine, or war. Robert had rammed his way to kingship, and now was broadly smiling at her; Rhaegar only a prince, pale as moonlit silver, forever withdrawing in his mad father's and his own sadness shadows.

Radiant Cersei was fit for a never setting sun; and hers by rights was the new reign bright dawn.

\--o--

At the feast, her brother was the first to pledge his loyalty to her on one knee.

“Raise, Ser Jaime. Will you win my wedding tourney for me?”

“Your Grace, tomorrow I will crown you.” She bid him to rise with outstretched arms, and he rose to meet ceremonially her embrace; kissing her on both cheeks, he whispered. “Sweet sister, you will be my only Queen of Love and Beauty.”

“Will you be my champion?”

“Forever, my Queen.” his voice rang like battle outcry up to the Throne Room high vault rafters.

Jaime would always look at her like she were his prize, but for all that he was not a winner; and his place was behind her, at her side, supporting her. Not on the Throne. Jaime was her Jaime, but he lacked the winner's resolve, and had none of her father's unyielding will; he was born second, and if not a follower, he certainly was not a natural leader like Robert, or as at least she supposed him to be: a man charismatic enough to won over to his cause his former enemies and make them join him, while the Tagaryens in their pride had affronted and turned into foes even their long term friends and steadfast allies. Cersei would learn soon to her regret men in bedchamber are quite different from the world thinks of them, and how quickly the conqueror's charm wears out.

\--o--

Robert groped at was was left of her pomegranate encrusted bodice – cloth-of-gold does not easily tear, ripped it with his ham-fisted hands, looked at it in distaste and in a rage flung it clinking on the floor, then had his clumsy way with her, drunkenly slurred that name and passed away snoring.

Yet, in hindsight that was not the worst.

_According to Varys and Littlefinger, half the whores in the Street of Silk and the wenches in the Red Keep have been called that once. If not a token of high esteem, at least a sign nothing is amiss; maybe even an affectionate pet name. With such a turnover in His Grace's bedsheets, tracking the right names must be hard._

Cersei couldn't sleep, overwhelmed with dull anger; and wondered when the king would stop mourning Lyanna and deign to acknowledge he had a real queen in his bed.

At day break, Robert trashed and flailed in their bed. His breath was jagged, and a sheet of sweat coated on his brow. _You had too much wine, last night._ Cersei, dutiful and thoughtful new bride, who still hoped she could make him forget Lyanna, as he would help her forgetting Rhaegar, shook him softly, and cooed:

“A nightmare, Your Grace, on your wedding night? May I comfort you?”

“Damn rubies... I kill him every night; and the bloody dragon still haunts me!” He gritted his teeth, and called out into a passion. “RHAEGAR!”

A sudden chill ran through her spine.

_The only man she had ever dreamed of. The one who by rights should have made a queen of her. The prince who had been promised her by her father._

Fury, rage, and battle aroused him more than wine or women, Cersei realized; and when Robert took her; when he ravished her, with his name still on his lips, she thought of Rhaegar, and Rhaegar had her.

Eventually, the dragon prince had not only his insipid Dornish princess, and the Stark girl, but her too, if not in real life, the way Rhaegar Targaryen would have things: in songs, in dreams, in tales. _He never had much interest in reality, his world were dusty books and misty prophecies. He always had an eerily unworldliness about him._ He had lost at the Trident, still, he had managed to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.

She had hoped to forget dreams for reality, and get rid once and forever of him, but Robert would never help her forgetting the prince, for he could never forget himself, and instead he would remind her of him, he would remind her he wasn't him, he would remind he had killed him.

If ever a winner, Robert was a sore one. A winner does not brood over won battles and lost loves.

He came to her bed – to do his husbandly _duty_ , to _use_ her - with dull eyes, where even lust sparkles were quenched in wine, and always besotted enough to forget everything come the morrow.

_As a callow boy, seeking for the bravery to do it in his cup bottom; as he lacked the guts to confront with her, or rather as he couldn't abide to accept she was is wife. As he felt guilty towards Lyanna for it._

He had no such qualms with serving wenches, as for Lyanna, and her supposed kidnapping, she had a quite different notion.

The Starks didn't marry in a Sept, before a Septon, like civilized people, but in the wild, and said words to a tree; it was even rumoured that in the North they still kept the right to the first night. The Starks were a race with the wildlings; the Targaryens had had mistresses, but the whole kidnapping thing, and stealing away, reeked much more of North – was much more Stark than Targaryen, and even less so like Rhaegar.

Most maidens in the Seven Kingdoms would have been honoured to surrender their maidenhead to Rhaegar Targaryen and would have gladly shared their bed with him, if he had as much played them a tune or asked politely, and would have not dared deny him - he was the one likelier to pull back, in Cersei's own experience – but Lyanna was a Stark, with all of their prickly sense of honour, and had to put up that mummer's farce of an abduction, just to play the unwilling maid.

_Maybe the prince had grown tired of the all too willing wenches, and the dragon would welcome a taste of chase excitement._

_Her king, and her prince; never hers. Lyanna had them both._

Lyanna Stark had bewitched them, awarding with failure, misery and death, sorrow and grief all the men who had loved her, and leaving nothing to Cersei. No dreams; nor her hopes, not even what was hers by vows: the wolf-girl had feasted on them all, and still howled her scorn from hell.

What she had left were only ghosts and husks. Robert couldn't relish the luscious fruits of victory: instead a kingdom he had no interest in ruling and a wife he had less love for had been foisted on him. He didn't care for his reign – even _Jaime_ would have made a better king – and as for her, he did not see in her his prize, but his own failure, and his failure punishment, for she reminded him he had not been able to get Lyanna back, and poured on her all the contempt he was too coward to acknowledge he felt for himself.

His empty antics were a sorry excuse of life. She could never bear the children of a man she so utterly despised; of a self-deceiving craven who couldn't face reality, eager not for life, but for the numbing daze of rut, revelries, or war-rage.

There was not a night she spent with Robert, without Rhaegar Targaryen looming between them; nor a day, without the taste of bile in her mouth.


	3. Ser Jaime Lannister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cersei gave him a lingering look. “You know,” she said, “For a moment you sounded quite like Father.”_

Her brother had always been slightly disappointing. He would do anything for her; even what she would rather have him _not_ do: but she would always forgive him, for Jaime would never fail her.

Jaime had always been a slight disappointment, for he could have everything so effortlessly, he would not care having, less appreciate what he was allowed. Life had always been to easy to her brother: he was the heir, and he had not even to reach, less to struggle for acknowledgement; and that made him weak and feckless. He had an inner flaw, a crack only she seemed to notice.

He had always slightly disappointed her. He would have made her raging with envy for what she coveted, had not been Jaime - her brother's unwillingness at simply _holding_ what was already his upset her, yet she found it oddly comforting, for he would never deny her anything, for he would never fail her. He had no desires of his own; he was emptied, and she would fill him with hers.

Jaime only desire was her.

To Jaime, her limbs and his sword reach encompassed all the world he would ever care about. If only the world could be that large, Jaime would have been perfect; if only he had realized it were larger; but then he would have been no longer _her_ Jaime.

They had been sundered along wrong cracks, leaving a never healing wound: Cersei had been given all the ambition her twin lacked, and she couldn't fulfil as a woman. It was natural her twin would help her in her pursuit; help her to feel whole again.

Jaime was so perfect; still always lacking. He was perfect because he lacked something; he was perfect because she lacked him.

Love is lack. Desire a wound. Love is lack, want, need, desire.

You can only truly desire what you are not allowed to, and love impossible things. Their father unyielding ambition; more powerful than the king himself, yet never a king; Robert impossible love for Lyanna, when he could have all the women of the Seven Kingdoms – when he actually _had_ many of them, and Cersei too, the prize amongst them; and Rhaegar mad quest for doom. As for Jaime – Jaime could have been King, if he only had wanted to; if Cersei had been him, she would sit the Iron Throne; if Cersei had been him, she wouldn't let go of Casterly Rock. Jaime, Lord Tywin's sword wielding perfect heir, golden, beautiful, brave had always enjoyed all she yearned for; Jaime had the world at his feet free for the picking; all _she_ could ever desire within easy reach – and Jaime didn't care; Jaime wouldn't bother reaching.

\--o--

Her twin was the Kingslayer, and the Oathbreaker, to everyone, the Kingsguard who had betrayed his vows, murdering his king. To her, the man who afterwards did not know what to do with the Iron Throne; daring enough to win the highest prize, and with no use for it. That was so totally him; foolhardy enough to attempt and successfully accomplish with careless confidence deeds no one else would dare think of, and Jaime enough not to bother with what would happen afterwards or what to do with he had achieved.

For that was Jaime: almost there, but not quite so. He would never step back; and when anyone else would step forward, he would step aside.

“What did you think you were doing, shoving your sword into Aerys's throat?”

“His fears killed him, man might say. The king was so frightened no sword was allowed about him, apart from his Kingsguard; I was the only one in King's Landing, and Aerys wanted me always around, for he was afraid of father.”

“Why did you? What did you hope to gain?”

“Gain? I'm not a man to haggle.”

“You are not even a man to _think_.”

“Someone had to dispatch him. ”

“It was ripe time for the Mad King to be disposed of. That's what the likes of Gregor Clegane are for. Father's dogs are to do the dirty job, not you.”

“Lest I soil that fine white cloak of mine.” Her brother replied with a wry smirk. “Sometimes you sounds just like him, sweet sister.”

She snapped back. “That's the problem: you never are.”

Jaime gave a shrug. “All my brethren fought, at the Trident or at the Tower of Joy. An unsheathed sword gets rusty,” he pressed closer to her, so Cersei could feel his hardness, “And I have another long unused one badly needing honing.”

Cersei shoved him back. Jaime threaded his fingers in her golden locks, stroking his thumbs against her throat delicate lines, and leaned forward whispering to her ear.

“A man needs a woman, after a killing.”

To Jaime, she was the only woman worth having. To Jaime, there was no woman, no world beyond her. Together, they were the world, and the Others could take all the rest. _If only the world had worked that way._

“The Iron Throne was free for the taking, a fresh Lannister army in King's Landing, and you did not even think seizing it for yourself.”

“I am a Kingsguard, Cersei. There are vows. I couldn't hold the Iron Throne more than I could Casterly Rock.”

No use to remind Jaime he had already broken the pivotal Kingsguard's oath, and was about to break quite enthusiastically another in this very moment.

It was not the first time the Kingsguard took part, and a bloody one, in matters of succession, but never before anyone got rid of a king and didn't care the least about the next one's choice.

“Your sword does most of the thinking for you, brother. At least, you should have had your say as to the succession to the Iron Throne.”

“My only reward is you.” Jaime moaned on her throat. Oft times, there was just no reasoning with him.

“If you had seized the throne, you could have made your queen of me.” He cupped her breasts through her cloth crimson silk.

“Robert had a better claim.” His fingers began playing with her gown lacings.

“And Vyserys better still.” She retorted.

“I claim you only.”

She broke from him, before he could unfasten any further her bodice.

“Robert Baratheon was not even in condition to claim the throne for himself.”

“Eddard Stark did for him; and when he'll be back Robert will claim his sister, and we will have another queen.”

“Lyanna Stark? The queen of whores, you mean! The king can't possibly marry such a slut.”

“A match made in heaven, you mean. Our beloved king is quite fond of whores. Besides, you should speak more respectfully of your future good sister.” Jaime was again trying to engulf her, but Cersei wriggled free.

“I'm not even betrothed, how can you tell?”

“I daresay father gave up hopes of marrying you to a Targaryen. Which is the only high lord yet unmarried?”

“Stannis Baratheon.”

“There you are: father can't hope for a better match. He will likely attend his brother court, and we could manage to be together whenever we wish to.”

“Do you presume I wish to see you that often?” Cersei teased him.

“I take you are not joining the silent sisters; are you?”

“There are other great houses, and their heirs.”

“Edmure Tully is a risk, I concede. Father has always tried to broker a marriage with them, but he is just a child, while Stannis is brother to the king, and he won't miss that.”

“Benjen Stark, could be an option.”

“I think not. I avoided the wall by a hair breadth; and I'd rather not have you dispatched to freeze. I couldn't stomach righteous Ned as a good brother. Besides, soon he will no longer be the heir to Winterfell: the lady Catelyn is with child.”

“You hate the Starks; don't you?”

“Would you rather have pukey Pyke?”

“You convinced me... Almost.”

“What's left? A Martell guy older than you, with a dreadful repute, and way too fond of his sister to condone you are a Lannister.”

“Aren't you, by all means, too fond of yours as well?”

“I own you that it's not for me to name anyone too fond of his sister, but I'm not like anyone else: no one is like us, Cersei. ”

With that, he resumed fondling her, and Cersei couldn't help smiling and yielding to him. Jaime was seventeen, had been too long away from her, and could endure politics only for a limited amount of time, despite being Tywin Lannister's son.

And, all in all, Cersei was all too willing to forgive him everything; and the new king as well. Lord Tywin had managed to make the most of his son's _thundering blunder_ , of his _towering foolishness higher than the Red Keep itself_ , of a _madness he didn't suppose could be such an infectious illness,_ and had skilfully turned it into another allegiance pledge to Robert Baratheon: so Jaime kept his golden head and his old white cloak, along with his new ill reputed names; his arrogant smirk as well, and an air about him of caring little and less for all the former tree.

\--o--

He had renounced to Casterly Rock; and lord Tywin still could not accept he was no longer his true heir; he could have had he Iron Throne. Cersei doubted he would have even refused the office of Lord Commander, as he did the office of Hand, if she had not forced it upon him while he was not in King's Landing.

She should have known better; why should he find now more appealing the appointment of Hand of the King, when he could have been king, and had shrugged away from the throne?

Still, when he did so he was half a boy; and he should have grown up since; but a white cloak works strange things on a man, and the Kingslayer, the Oathbreaker, the first sword of Westeros with no more a sword hand, somehow still dreamed of battle, if not of honour and glory like the fifteen years old boy he had been, and not of power.

_Jaime loves the fight for its own sake, and would sooner sit a horse than a throne. All he was ever good for, looking good in his whites, and knocking men off their horses._

Yet, when she would need him, he shouldn't fail her.

Eddard Stark threatened her and the children.

_He was battling in the Riverlands._

Stannis attacked King's Landing.

_He was prisoner in Riverrun._

He came too late to save Joffrey.

_They loped off his sword hand._

He didn't champion her.

_How could he, a lion with no claws?_

She needed him, more than ever before.

_The raven never arrived._

Had ever Jaime been there, when she needed him?

Cersei alone, without her twin's sword, confronted with Lord Stark, got rid of him to protect her – _their –_ children, and assured their throne; she alone fought Stannis, she alone was there when her – _their_ \- son was murdered, she alone could keep in check the grasping Tyrells.

It was all for the good: she would be remembered as the true founder of the Lannister's dynasty.

When she needed him most, she could not think Jaime would fail her.

Jaime would always get what he wanted; and never hold it.

Jaime looked like her father; and would never be like him.

Cersei would never stop hoping he could be.


	4. Prince Rhaegar Thargaryen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Robert won the tourney of the Trident,” she had to say. “He overthrew Prince Rhaegar and named me his queen of love and beauty. I am surprised you do not know that story, good-daughter.”_

Rhaegar was her hidden wound, not even Jaime knew about; father had told her it was a secret, and she had dreamed of him since she could remember. She feared, were she to speak of it, it would never come true; she was so proud of her father's promise and she would not dare betray his trust.

When the heir to the Seven Kingdoms first came to Lannisport, she wondered if her brother would take issue, and whether she'd better tell him about her incoming betrothal, but Jaime was no less infatuated than her with the court, its trappings, the White Swords and the Silver Prince. The twins had never been in King's Landing, and everything concerning it was magic. Her brother was too bedazzled by Ser Arthur Dayne and his Dawn to mind about her and the Rhaegar Targaryen.

Since Lady Joanna's death Lord Tywin had not thrown as much as a proper feast in Casterly Rock, and that only added to the twins' double excitement. They were given to understand that rarely the King bestirred himself from the capital, and both the heir to the Seven Kingdom's presence and his were a token of their high esteem, an outstanding acknowledgement of the Hand's consequence and authority. They were worthy of the dragons, and the lavish celebrations held in the Targaryens' honour were to flaunt before the whole court and the nobles of the West the wealth and might of House Lannister.

So they should carry themselves with dignity, as the proud lions they were.

All the fuss and pleas notwithstanding, when Rhaegar stepped from the dais, with his hair silver gleaming in ripples like a moonlit river, and made for the musicians' gallery where he began to play the high harp and sing in his clear, deep, moving tone, Jaime yawned, and whispered her. “Let's hope he doesn't wail _Get me an umbrella_ more than once _.”_

\--o--

One of the many names her brother had dubbed _the Rains of Castamere._ He quite liked its drums, its bold and warlike tune, and as it happened it was a favourite of aunt Genna, who lustily enjoyed feast, wine, songs and it was rumoured some vigorous player as well; yet, there was a problem with it. A good singer would content himself with banging it out once, or twice if he was a lickspittle; but the worse his voice, the heavier the downpour, in the hope of currying favour he couldn't win it with his poor skills only. They still remembered a dreary banquet, whose main courses had been variations on the Castameres' Rains; by the third one, Lord Tywin excused himself and left for his solar with uncle Kevan, but Jaime as heir to the Rock had to endure the it to the bitter end, and Cersei kept him company out of sisterly sympathy.

Later he burst out in his sister's bed, “First thing, when I'm the Lord of the Rock, I will rebuild the Reynes' Hall, with a sturdy waterproof roof, and use it as a dungeon for anyone who would fancy singing in the rain a time too many. I would gladly offer those who love water too much to the Drowned God.”

\--o--

“I'm sure Prince Rhaeagar won't even sing it; a dragon doesn't beg from father, as a mummer has to.” Cersei replied stiffly _; even if he is here to ask for his daughter's hand._ She already felt more of a Targaryen than of a Lannister.

“It's only polite he does. I wager he will: I double the bet. The Kingsguard is leaving in a short time and I need back my day.”

Jaime was trying to win back a stake, he had too rashly set – and lost - thinking Cersei would not accept it, but she was too eager for some time she could spend more freely with the Prince and his retinue to refuse him, as she had of late since Jaime told her one of her companions had a crush on him.

“Melara would marry me. She even stole me kiss, when yesterday I dressed as you, pretending it was me.”

“Did you kiss her?”

“I had to, we were playing at riddles.”

“You lost on purpose. No one could best you, apart from me.”

“Your Melara cheated.” The notion still bitterly rankled Jaime.

“And you let her? No one of your playmates would dare.”

“I would beat them bloody; but how could I kick up a fight as the Lady Cersei of House Lannister? What would you have had me do?” Jaime huffed back. “What would Septa Saranella snarl, at your unladylike misbehaviour? What would have you done, sweet sister, if I had torn or stained your silk gown? You are so fussy!”

“Being a lady, dear brother, does not mean you have to put up with everything. Don't fret about Melara, I'll see to her.”

Ever since Cersei did but seldom agree when Jaime offered her to trade each other's clothing, as he was wont to when he would have it his way.

\--o--

Cersei grinned wickedly.

_Prince Rhaegar will ask for my hand, and I will never again beg from you, and you shall behave and do as I bid, for you will be the Lord of the Rock but I will be your Queen, brother._

She won, and Jaime conceded Rhaegar was to be the greatest King Westeros had ever had, but it proved an ill omen.

By the end of the Prince's performance, aunt Genna was sobbing unabashedly, even if she favoured bawdy songs lord Tywin could not entirely approve of, while uncle Kevan whispered soothingly to her, and their father tapped her hand mildly bored, most of the ladies were weeping, and even Jaime had to swallow a sigh; Cersei's eyes were brimming with tears, but she tried to held them back: Rhaegar's pensive purple gaze was on her. The grieving notes in his powerful voice edged it with longing and foreboding, and she did not even hear the music fading away.

His harp chord stilled, he smiled widely at Cersei with his shimmering sad eyes, and beckoned to a drum player, but before he could begin, the King rose, and walked him out the hall, muttering to his son's ear. Lord Tywin followed at their heels.

“Don't try to ingratiate yourself with my Hand, Rhaegar. A Targaryen Prince has no use for a servant's daughter; Tywin thinks too highly of himself, and needs to be put in his place.”

That very night Cersei sought her twin for comfort, and couldn't stop crying. _Everyone will know how the Prince spurned me._

“I twice regret I lost to you: some _Raining Lions and Cats_ would have spared us a flood of tears.” Jaime snorted. “The Prince of Dragonstone has the world is at his feet, and should know better than sorrowful songs of lost dragons and last loves, or was it the other way around?”

Cersei had been beautiful, had been charming, had acquitted herself like a lioness of the Rock; still, she had been found faulty, the Prince had rejected her, and she feared her father's lashing.

Lord Tywin clenched his jaw at her red rimmed eyes. “A Lannister doesn't make a spectacle of herself. It's time you realize nothing is easily gained at court.” _A dragon is no easy prey, not even for a lion._

If his father was angered, he did not let it pass through. “Our King loves to remind us who is in charge.” He explained as he considered the mishap no more than an unruly child's annoying whim. _Too loud cheers to Rhaegar and her father had put an end to the Prince's engagement_.

“Nothing is going to change, and you will leave for King's Landing with me. Up with your chin.”

It had been the first time her father had ever failed her. The first time she had to swallow a slight, and scorn; in King's Landing, she would feast on them.

\--o--

Whispers of a wedding waned, and life went on. Prince Rhaegar kept playing his harp, mooning over her, and wooing, while Cersei kept hoping and dreaming of him. _In any half-decent song, with all this pining, we should have eloped thrice. Maybe he likes his music scores better than real people._

Once he sang of unhappy lovers, who fled together to their doom; Rhaegar was too much of an accomplished poet to care for happy endings, and she demurely asked “What grief aunts you, my lord, if I may?” _When I'll bear your firstborn, I will give you reasons to beam, and for merry songs._

“I wish life could be a song.” He smiled thinly at her; he always looked sadder, when he did, his smile all the more enticing for that. “In a song, I could be free as a lark, to climb up to my beloved one's windowsill and sing of my love. Brave as a valiant...” He lost himself in thought, but soon recovered. “But I have duties to the King and to the realm.”

That is, the Aerys still opposed their marriage; but his madness was now an open secret, and by rights her father and her Prince should soon oust him as unfit to rule. She remembered: you will not marry a Prince, but a King.

Cersei kept hoping.

\--o--

Rumours of marriage waxed, and when Cersei was cheerfully humming Rhaegar's last piece refrain, when her father updated her, “The council resolved to find a bride to Rhaegar.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“King Aerys decreed the free Cities are to be searched for” Lord Tywin draw a breath, collected himself to master his voice and hold its tone as controlled and as even as always. “A blood nobler than the one presently found in Westeros.”

“Some Spicer King's daughter? _Nobler than -”_

Under her father stern gaze Cersei stayed her tongue. _The Red Keep has many ears, and it will not do to speak treason._

“Our King's very words.”

_The Targaryens consider themselves on a par with gods, but who am I, to be turned down as lowlier than cheesemongers' offspring?_

\--o--

The quest was fruitless, luckily, and anew winds of a royal wedding blew back to Westeros. Cersei hoped again; and Prince Rhaegar wedded Elia Martell, playing the fond husband with her, as he had before acted the wistful wooer to Cersei.

She had been rejected again, for someone unworthy of a Prince's attention, and the slight mocked her even more piercingly. Princess Elia was ailing, had none of Cersei's beauty, and if in the Martells ran a thin trickle of Targaryen blood, the Lannisters were nonetheless the greatest of the great houses.

_King Aerys trusts his Kingsguard and no one else, and too many Dornishmen don the white, whispering sweet words at his ears; Prince Lewyn Martell is Elia's uncle, and Ser Arthur Dayne Rhaegar's best friend, as his sister Ashara to the Dornish Princess. The Prince is the first loyal subject and such a dutiful son, he would never do anything against his father, but rather obey the King in every madness._

“Is it true the lady Cersei was almost betrothed to Prince Rhaegar, but he married the Princess instead?” A skinny young girl, newly arrived at the Keep, asked a middle-aged and large breasted notorious chatterbox. “Too self-conceited about her good looks and her gold by half. Lionesses! tsk” They puffed hauling a huge laundry basket. “Just like her aunt, mark my words: lucky enough a Frey would have her.”

_Now, even washerwoman laughed at her._

\--o--

“You just flowered, Cersei, and I'd have maester Pycelle to examine you.”

“But I'm fine, father, and the midwife says-”

“A midwife?” Lord Tywin knot his brow. “Pycelle. On the morrow.” His jaw angle brokered no arguments; so Cersei had no chance but to thank him for his kind interest, and meekly follow him to the archmaester's rooms.

Pycelle cleared his throat and browsed through his drawers. “I wish all young ladies in my charge enjoyed the Lady Cersei's perfect health.”

_Princess Elia was the only archmaester's charge who could fit the description, and her health was known as poor at best._

Cersei quickly grasped what left unsaid: Pycelle was to state that everything was in working order with her, and she could bear healthy children, a task Elia wasn't equal to; but what good would do that, since Rhaegar had married the Dornish Princess?

The archmaester ponderously studied a host of vials and jars, poured a strong-smelling powder into a parchment scrap he neatly folded.

“Complaints of no consequence, I daresay quite normal.” – what she mostly complained, was the lack of that elegant paleness that often accompanied bleeding – “To ease any discomfort, this powder will do. A pinch before sleeping, in honeyed milk.”

“Sorry for troubling you for trifles of no matter, archmaester.”

“I'm here to serve, my lord. I'm glad to be of help to the King's Hand, and to his House.” His bow was as deep as allowed by his Citadel gravity.

“Thank you for your understanding.” as formally Lord Tywin replied “At the council we heard too many sad news about Princess Elia, and I realize I am grown to worry even for smallest signs as they threatened a grievous illness.”

Pycelle frowned. “The Princess is with child now, and I fear hers could prove a difficult pregnancy; I confide she will carry to term, but her health is not as good as one could hope for, and I will not conceal my concern. Childbirth in such circumstances poses some hazards; I expect her ensuing recovery to be long.” The archmaester fidgeted with his chain. “My Lord Hand, you can trust on me to serve the best interest of the kingdom, and to attend our Princess, with utmost care.”

“I know you for a devoted servant to the Iron Throne, archmaester.”

“The small council can always rely on me, my lord.”

By that, Cersei knew Pycelle would make sure Princess Elia not to raise from the birthing bed, if she ever reached it.

\--o--

The Princess bore a baby girl, and Cersei still hoped to give a widower Rhaegar his heir, but against all odds Elia, though slowly, regained her health. That nuisance of her pesky brother, who had studied at the Citadel and knew his poisons better than the archmaester himself, was forever underfoot and Pycelle was an useless craven and would not undertake such a risk.

When Cersei was about to resign herself to the happy princely family, had decided it made little sense to pine over someone who wouldn't have her, be it a Targaryen Prince, and won Jaime over to join the Kingsguard, to console her in King's Landing, Rhaegar turned to the Wolf girl, who was not beautiful, as far as Valyrian blood went had none at all, was more of a wildling than of a lady, and for her forfeited everything.

 _So much for his duties to the crown, to the realm, to his house, his family, to his wife and his children_.

Still, after stealing away, Rhaegar came back to the Red Keep, made up his mind and finally took it upon himself to sort out the trouble, and asked her father to retake his office; _it took him quite a lot; and a wonder of a scandal; but at last he recovered his wits, and in the bargain found in himself some guts as well;_ and while her father brooded on his offer, Cersei hoped against hope, and dreamed of her gentle Prince, who instead got himself splendidly butchered at the Trident, and by that lout of Robert, of all people.

_Rhaegar never failed to fail her._

The black-winged tidings reached them in her father's solar.

“I should take solace Jaime is in King's Landing, and was not at the Trident!” Lord Tywin slammed the letter down on the desk. “A first born son's place, in such times, is with his House; but your foolish brother chose to follow his whims, his dreams of honour and glory, and now at the Red Keep he enjoys dubious honour and no glory at all, hostage to a King whose madness is rampaging wilder by the day, much more than his sworn sword. Prince Rhaegar and his dreams wrought more havoc in the Seven Kingdoms than all of his father's insanity.”

Cersei pledged to herself she would never again dream of any man.

 


	5. Lord Tywin Lannister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _... there is a hole in the world where Father stood..._

No man was like her father; not even Jaime, a lion to other men, only a cub to Tywin; and he had failed her the most.

It was not the spurn of men in whose love or desire she deluded herself more and more fleetingly that wounded her. From him she had learnt love and tears were weakness; and she would shut out them from the outer world.

_Their scorn meant little and less to me. I was nothing to them, they were nothing to me._

Yet, her father had failed her; and not when he failed fulfilling his promise of a dragon, of a silver Prince, and a throne; he paraded her before Rhaegar, as roasted swan redressed with gilded feathers at a feast, and awarded her instead with a crowned cully, a whoremonger, a sot, and once she was good-ridden of such a prize, tried to saddle her with the crippled son of Mace Tyrell, who had easily stuck a string of three kings to his daughter but couldn't scrape from the barrel bottom a wife for his heir, only to change his mind for a prince with less land than a landed knight, and a hard won notoriety that would put even her late husband's to shame.

_Only the greatest can fail like that._

The slights she had suffered only made her stronger; nor was it because he left her alone to deal with King's Landing riotous rabble, and deserted her when she was bearing the brunt of Stannis's siege, nor for he wanted her removed from the capital, far from her her son and her throne, away from everything she had struggled for.

It was not he failed bringing back her brother, and when he did - too late – her twin was short his sword wand, a mangled, embittered man, broken and useless as a shattered looking glass, and no longer her Jaime; no longer her mirror, no longer the polished, steely, dentless surface that would cast back the image Cersei needed. His body – her same body – was no longer hers; an alien gazed at her from her own eyes, and she could no longer see in him her whole self.

Not even that.

Not because her father died; nor _how_ he did, the ludicrous and debasing way of it – caught pant down in the privy, with a whore in his bed.

_Such a wonderful jape: I should let slip the tidbit to the Tyrells, there is the chance that Lord Mace might burst out in laughter and choke on it. A fitting demise for such a cheery oaf._

Another slight to suffer; but men are men; and men are bound to die.

Even the greatest can fail like that.

Even the greatest _men_.

\--o--

“Ser Jaime Lannister sends his regards.” Cersei tinged with longing her winsome smile. “You have been missed, Ser Arthur. My brother yearned to trade blows with the Sword of the Morning; and some words as well, but we could not linger and he had to leave on our lord father's errand.”

“I regret I disappointed you.” Arthur Dayne smiled inwardly, still amused at how often the Lannister twins would say 'we' when referring to one other. “Prince Rhaegar required my service, and he can hardly bring himself back from Summerhall. Do tell Ser Jaime I would have been honoured to cross blades with him.”

“He will be delighted at your kindness!” Cersei Lannister tossed her golden tumble, suddenly serious. “Ser, would you judge him good enough-”

“Never seen the likes of him, my lady.” He replied gallantly. “Your brother wields a sword as naturally as he outstretches his arm.”

“I'm not a silly girl fishing for flattery: how ravishing am I, how powerful my father, how brave my brother.” Cersei reeled off the list with a dismissive frown, as self-evidences not even worth stating. “What we need to know, is he good enough...” She shyly placed a light, almost trembling hand on his arm, and softly uttered “For a white sword, some day?”

For a wink Arthur saw in Cersei's eyes the eager green gaze of a boy he had knighted some moons before, worshipping him in a dizziness of anxiety to live up to his high expectation and elation. He felt a warm wave of pride rushing through at the prospect of mentoring Jaime Lannister into the Kingsguard. If the prestige of a fresh knight was to some extent bestowed by who had dubbed him, the reverse also held and the Young Lion had in him to be great.

“That is not for me to say, my lady. It is up to the King, who could seek the Lord Commander's wisdom -”

“Yet Prince Rhaegar listens to you, Ser, doesn't he? You are not only one of the most distinguished member of Kingsguard, but his closest friend.” The twinkle in his eyes and the dimples forming by his mouth were answer clear enough to Cersei. She boldly pressed on. “I need to make sure of your support, before I dare broach the Prince about it myself.”

Dayne nodded his agreement. He was fully aware that knighting Tywin's own son could be read as an ouverture to mend fences between the Dornish party – for lack of better terms to name the Prince's one – and the Hand's faction – no one dared to say the King's one – after Rhaegar's wedding. The rift had been purposefully cleft by Aerys himself, who couldn't resolve which one, his heir or his hand, to distrust most more, and in the meantime pitted one against the other. Cersei Lannister's so carefully unassuming, innocent approach veiled a peace offer from her father, and as much he told the Prince. Arthur knew major things were close at hand, too risky to be undertaken without Lord Tywin's decisive support. Rhaegar agreed, and at the earliest took apart the Hand's daughter.

Cersei deeply curtsied, welcoming back the Prince of Dragonstone. “It's good to have you back, Your Grace.”

“My lady, I'm sorry your brother missed the chance to meet with the Sword of the Morning.” The Prince beckoned her to raise, and offered her his arm. “He sings high praises of Ser Jaime. Would you walk with me, lady Cersei? I plea guilty for the delay and I hope you will suggest me how to better atone for it.”

“Too great an honour.” She smiled coyly. “My brother has been dreaming of a white cloak since we first met in Lannisport.” She paused for a sigh. _You owe me, Rhaegar._ “Your help could make good of his dreams.”

“Dayne swears by your twin's worth. I'm sure my father will accept him; and I am sure a word from yours...”

“My lord father?” She shot him a sad smile. _You owe me, Rhaegar._ “He would rather not take the risk again, and jeopardize his first born son's career by having any part in it.”

It was Rhaegar's turn to sigh. _I almost have him._

“The Kings in his wisdom could consider most influential houses, such as your lady wife's one, would likely take issue at his Hand holding such overwhelming sway on him.” _You owe me, Rhaegar._ She awarded him a brief squeeze on his arm. “Your Grace once deigned to tell me, at times high birth is indeed a heavy burden and turn into a hindrance on the way to one's dreams.”

“I promise you, Ser Jaime's own merits will champion him better than my endorsement.”

Rhaegar meant he would hint at Jaime Lannister joining the Kingsguard as an eventuality displeasing him and the Dornish: as someone who could quickly overshadow Arthur in the lists, and as Tywin Lannister's son would likely grow a shrewder commander than Prince Lewyn.

Cersei sported a wicked smile, and blithely chirped. “Lord Whent's tourney is going to be the greatest event ever. All the knights in Westeros will attend, and display their skill and prowess – at least the worthy ones. Can we hope to see you in the lists, Your Grace?”

_Aerys's love for scenic display of his power will likely be his undoing. He won't miss the chance to make a show of my brother swearing into the Kingsguard._

She had Prince Rhaegar's word. With that, and a chance remark to Ashara within the King's earshot when Dayne won all the lists –  _If only my brother could shine as glorious as yours in the King's service, a pity my lord father maintains serving as a sworn brother below a Lannister -_ Jaime's white cloak was all but won: King Aerys would not miss the tantalizing chance of displeasing at once Rhaegar and Tywin, by rights his staunchest supporters.

\--o--

Jaime did not require much subtlety. He wanted to be like Arthur Dayne much more than he wanted to be _you_ , father. A naïve boy, my little brother, way happier at playing with his sword than adept at playing the game. It took me just a night to remind him he was allowed more enticing dreams, other than yours.

_If I can't be you, I will best you._

You left me no other chance. It was me, not Aerys who snatched your son from you: no man could have fooled you, and of your heir, no less. No man, but a girl: your own daughter.

_Would have you been proud of me, father, had you known?_

Jaime. Your _son._ Your _heir. Y_ our _golden_ boy. A _true_ Lannister Lion. How could we delude ourselves so, father? Content with a simple life of fucking and killing; even if it was killing a King and fucking a Queen... Your children should perform always at the top, shouldn't they, my lord?

 _Your_ beloved Jaime. You are wrong, father; Jaime is _mine_ , in so many more ways than yours; he has always been. He is _me_. He – I – managed to free himself from your leash, but he has always been in mine: I shaped him into the man he is.

The irony of it. Jaime would be nothing without me. I got him to join the Kingsguard; I named him Lord Commander; I made his sons sit the Throne in their own rights. You missed the last, didn't you? As you forgot it was me who called you to serve as Hand of the King.

Moulding him to make him like you was the only way I had to be you, father; the only way to have you look at me. Or at least a lookalike.

_Did you ever spare a wee look at me?_

Of course not, you had better ado. Further the family, ensure your legacy, so that the glory of the Lannister name would shine so bright as to forever daze foes with fear.

_But who could do better than me? Who did?_

You nursed the highest ambitions for Jaime. Yet, even if he had been equal to the task, you couldn't hope for your heir to raise Lannister House higher than you had done already; for there was nowhere higher, but the Throne itself.

When it was my turn, I didn't shy away, I didn't shirk my duty to House Lannister, as my brother did. I played the part you required of me: the lack of a cock, sometimes, can better serve such ambitions. Could my brother rule the Seven Kingdoms, on his son's behalf? Could he grant you royal grandchildren? Could Jaime soar higher than me?

_Higher than you, father._

I was the one who did; the only one worthy of you. Did you ever wear a crown, father? Yet, you were all a king is meant to be. Did one of my siblings?

Oh wait, my twin could actually have, but Jaime did sit the Iron Throne, only to shrug it off with a jeer. As far as the big game is concerned, my daring brother is more of a shy sheep than of a lion.

_Would you have liked better your son's children on the Throne?_

A pity he had not in him to seize it. But you always get what you want, don't you? It's only because of your worthless daughter my brother's children donned a crown.

_What more would you have had of me?_

You taught me to aim higher; you taught me how a lion claws his way to the top. I was the one who obeyed you; the one to better our house position; the one to fulfil your ambitions; the one who achieved the most.

The one you deemed unworthy. The one you saw lacking.

_How did I disappoint you, father? Did I ever fail you?_

Yet, when I looked for myself into your eyes, I never found me whole.

You failed me, when it really matters.


	6. A dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _Gregor is a very large man. Also a very stupid one. Too stupid to know when he should die, it seems. His screaming has even been known to wake me of a night.”_

There are no gods; only pain.

Only pain, and the tang of blood. Blood, and gore, and the crush of bones; their sweet marrow inside, the cloying, sickening reek of rotting flesh. Rank sweat, darkening grit, hot blood slowly seeping through matted black hairs. A marble floor slippery coolness, the neigh of dying horses. The scent of fear and tearing screeches of silks. Wails, high-pitched cries, screams of agony pulsing with his own heart throb, and scorching fire coursing through his lungs, and blind shots of agony knotting his swollen guts and flooding over the Seven Hells in a never ebbing tide.

What can a dog do, but howl?

\--o--

There are no gods; only pride and prey.

Pride and prize; pack and game. That's how it has always been.

Hot on the scent, predators are silent. Soft paws on rustling leaves; sharp, long fangs at the ready for the kill. As quietly they encircle their prey.

Preys make nagging, squealing noises, irksome as nipping fleas. Blurred voices, powerless as the buzz of flies, annoying enough to arouse. Quarry always end up with ripped open steaming entrails, their life juices soaking the dirt.

That's the way it works. Lions prowl. The earth trembles in their wake.

What can a dog do, but follow?

\--o--

There are no gods; only masters.

A dog only faith is his master; a master gives a him name and purpose.

A lioness pays no mind to a dog, nor to his coat colours. Black shapes on yellow, stars, rainbow plumes, sheer white; it is all and the same.

It makes no matter. That's what dogs are for: loyal and true, no matter what. True loyalty needs no reason, no judgement, no questioning voice.

No words either. A dog senses his master's anger, fear, hate; in a shrill tone, in a different standing, in a sharp skin scent. He feels it in his guts; and that's enough to run down whatever foe needs to be felled.

Because a dog will never fail you. Even when everyone lets you down.

What can a dog do, but obey?

\--o--

_"In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave; in the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Smith I charge you with being strong and steadfast. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Chrone... "_

_Words. Ringing as hollow bells. Idle talks. Prey talks._

_Dragons too are prey. Even Rhaegar._

_His bitch and her litter. She hated them. I felt it in the marrow of my bones. I felt it in every groan, in every pulse of life, of blood, of pain. I felt it in every throb._

_She named me her champion. I hunted him down. I fought to the bitter end, and then some. A bulldog clamped jaws won't loose the grip._

_She called for me again, and not even the Stranger and his chains could hold me back._

_May the Seven grant victory to the one whose cause is just._

 


End file.
